Not familiar with Zumba? It’s aerobics set to Latin-inspired dance music, and everything is a 3/6 count instead of a 4/8 count. And you spend a lot more time being encouraged to shake and shimmy various parts of your body.

The Things and I, in our quest to explore the Y, took a Zumba class. Before you lose your mind laughing at the mental image, please understand that this was a Zumba Gold class. (Should have been called “Silver,” which was the predominant hair color in the room.) Anyway, Zumba Gold is a bit slower, with more instruction, so you can get used to the beats and the moves.

The best thing I can say is: nobody fell down.

Thing 1 liked it. I suspect it’s related to our abiding obsession with the TV show So You Think You Can Dance.

Thing 2 hated it. About 15 minutes into the second class, she abandoned ship and went to the machine room next door and worked out on the treadmill and the spinning bike.

At our first class, the instructor had a fairly heavy accent, so she was a bit difficult to understand over the music. She stood mostly with her back to us, so we could more easily see what she was doing and follow along. This allowed me to notice that her butt was so tight and so small it looked like two grapefruit in the back of her tights. Bounce a quarter off it? I’m pretty sure it could repel bullets.

Zumba also incorporates more graceful and meaningful arm movements than regular old aerobics. It’s not hula or anything close, but you’re supposed to be flirty and sassy with your arms. This presents a difficulty for me, because I’m either gesturing wildly while I talk or gesturing wildly with a drink in my hand, or gesturing rudely at the other drivers who are getting in my way.

I don’t flirt with my arms. I thought that’s witty repartee and cleavage shirts were for.

We will continue on. Thing 2 has her eye on a spinning class, and I’m pretty sure she’ll kick my butt. We’re even talking about attempting step aerobics at the beginning of next month. I do not have a long and happy history with step class. Thing rug burns. Think tears. Think ripped black exercise tights and white underwear peeking out.

Maybe I should record my next attempt at working out, and then Z can be for Zany. Or Zoinks. Or Zzzz, since I’m likely to need a nap afterward.

I used to try to do Zumba on a regular basis. The teacher was Latina, hilarious, and sexy, and could do things with her hips that I thought were impossible for the human body. Turns out, they’re just impossible for my body. Sigh.